Page 18 of Pumpkin Spice & Orc Cinnamon Roll
That earns a laugh out of me. A real one. Dry, low, and caught off guard enough to surprise us both.
She raises an eyebrow. “Stars above. You laugh now? All it took was insulting your cooking?”
“I don’t cook,” I say, flicking the lantern wire into place. “I order delivery and threaten the kitchen staff into compliance.”
“Explains a lot.”
I climb down and wipe my hands on the rag tucked into my belt. “You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you?”
“Oh, immensely,” she says, hopping off the bale and twirling the empty mug. “You striding around like a walking thundercloud, carving signs and tryingsohard not to look at her like she hung the moon.”
“I don’t—” I start.
But Tara just levels me with that knowing stare—the one that saysdon’t waste your breath, orc boy, I already know what you’re not saying.
“She’s not ready,” I say finally, voice quieter than I mean for it to be. “And I’m not pushing her. I just want to… be here. If she ever wants to reach back.”
Tara nods slowly, the amusement softening at the edges. “You’re getting closer. Just don’t make the mistake of thinking proximity equals permission.”
“I wouldn’t.”
Her gaze sharpens. “No. But your heart might.”
And then she’s gone, disappearing toward the fire pit with a sway of hips and a whistle that sounds suspiciously like the beginning of a matchmaking spell.
I turn back toward the tent just in time to see Tessa standing at the far end, tying a ribbon around a basket of raffle entries, lips pursed in concentration, a little smudge of cinnamon dusting one freckled cheek.
She catches me watching.
Her eyes flick up, sharp and cautious, and for a moment I see it again—that flicker of something soft beneath all the shields. But it’s gone as fast as it came, shuttered behind a polite smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
It slays me.
Because I remember what it used to look like when she smiled for me, not in spite of me.
I exhale slow and steady through my nose and make my way back to the tool chest, resisting the urge to look at her again. Iknow that look too well—like she’s still waiting for me to prove I won’t scorch her life just by standing too close.
And I can’t blame her.
Back at the inn, the fire’s already down to embers by the time I slide behind the desk and light the oil lamp. My hands are sore, my back aches, and I’ve got hay in places no hay should be. But none of that stops me from pulling out the contract folder I brought with me from Caldrith Keep.
I flip to the page I’ve read too many times—Section 8.2: Holding Trust Deeds and Property Leases.
There, in black ink and archaic phrasing, is the clause that makes it all mine—Maple & Mallow, the land it sits on, the surrounding acre I claimed just in case the town ever tried to expand and shove her out.
The ink I signed it with cost a fortune. The shell corporation is as impenetrable as a fortress. And every single clause was meant to protect her.
But it doesn’t matter.
Because the second she found out—reallyfound out—none of it felt like protection. It felt like manipulation. Like ownership.
She deserves better than that.
She deserves choice.
I take up my pen and, for the first time since this all began, I scratch through the clause myself—no lawyers, no witnesses. Just me, ink, and intention. I write a new statement, clean and plain:
Full ownership of the land known as Parcel Hollow-1 is hereby granted in perpetuity to Tessa Quinn, with no lien, clause, or repayment required.
